Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“And don’t forget, if you spot a photographer, just smile and look relaxed. We don’t want the press thinking you’re unhappy, because then Lady Virginia will work out exactly what we’re up to.”

“I’ll bet she already has.”

“Dad, we can beat her, as long as you don’t lose your nerve.”

“Please make my imprisonment as short as possible,” he pleaded after he’d checked his one bag in and given his son a hug.

“I’ll phone every day,” said Clive, “and bring you up to date with everything that’s going on at this end.”

“And keep an eye on your mother. It’s going to come as a dreadful shock when she meets up with the real Virginia for the first time.”

By the time the major stepped on to the platform at Grimsby station, he knew exactly what needed to be done. His plan was foolproof, and his strategy honed to the finest detail.

He already knew a great deal about Robert Bingham and the way he had run the company from the research he’d carried out for Lady Virginia. And on this occasion she hadn’t even tried to bargain with him. She had met all his demands: £20,000 a year plus expenses, including a suite of rooms at the Royal Hotel whenever he had to stay in Grimsby.

Fisher felt there wasn’t a moment to lose and instructed the taxi driver to take him straight to the factory. During the journey he went over the speech he’d prepared, which wouldn’t leave the workers in any doubt who was the boss. It shouldn’t be too difficult to run a fish-paste factory. After all, he’d commanded a company in Tobruk with the Germans snapping at his heels.

The taxi dropped him outside the factory. A scruffy man wearing a peaked cap, open-necked shirt, and greasy overalls peered at the major from the other side of the locked gates.

“What do you want?” he demanded.

“I’m Major Fisher, the new chairman of the company, so open up immediately, my good man.”

The man touched the peak of his cap and pulled the gate open.

“Where’s the chairman’s office?” demanded Fisher.

“Bob never had what you’d call an office, but management are at the top of those steps,” the man said, pointing to the other side of the yard.

The major marched across the yard, a little surprised by the lack of activity because he knew the factory employed over two hundred full-time workers, with another hundred part-time. He climbed the iron steps up to the first floor and pushed open the door to be greeted by a large open-plan office with a dozen desks, only two of which were occupied.

A young man leapt to his feet. “You must be Major Fisher,” he said as if he’d been expecting him. “I’m Dave Perry, the assistant manager. I was told to show you around the factory and answer any questions you might have.”

“I was rather hoping to have a meeting with the managing director so I could be brought up to speed as quickly as possible.”

“Ah, you haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“Mr. Jopling handed in his notice yesterday. Told me that as he only had a couple of years before he retired, this might be a good time for someone else to fill his boots.”

“And are you that someone else?” asked Fisher.

“Not on your nelly,” said Perry. “I’ve only been here a few months. And in any case, I don’t fancy any more responsibility.”

“Then it will have to be Pollock, the works manager,” said Fisher. “Where’s he?”

“Mr. Jopling sacked him yesterday, for insubordination. It was almost the last decision he made before he resigned. Mind you, Steve Pollock can’t complain. He’s been sent home on full pay until the union completes its investigations. No one doubts that he’ll be reinstated. The only trouble is, the committee usually takes a couple of months before they come to a decision.”

“But he must have had a deputy?” said Fisher, unable to hide his frustration.

“Yes, Les Simkins. But he’s on a time-and-motion course at Hull Poly. Waste of time and not a lot of motion, if you ask me.”

Fisher strode across the room and looked down onto the factory floor. “Why isn’t the machinery working? Isn’t this meant to be a twenty-four-hour nonstop operation?” he said, staring down at a dozen workers who were standing around, hands in pockets, idly chatting, while one of them rolled a cigarette.

“We usually work an eight-hour-shift system,” said Perry, “but you need a statutory number of qualified workers before the machinery can be turned on — regulations, you understand — and unfortunately an unusually large number of the lads are on sick leave this week.” The phone on his desk began to ring. He picked it up and listened for a moment. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but our new chairman has just arrived, so I’ll pass you over to him.” Perry covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s the harbor master, Captain Borwick. Seems to have a problem.”

“Good morning, Borwick, it’s Major Fisher, the chairman of the company. How can I help?”

“Good morning, major. It’s quite simple really, you’ve got three days’ supply of cod piled up on my dockside, which I’d like picked up as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get on to it straightaway.”

“Thank you, major, because if it hasn’t been removed by four o’clock I’ll have no choice but to dump it back in the sea.” The phone went dead.

“Where are the lorries that pick up the morning catch?”

“The drivers hung around until midday, but as no one had the authority to give the order for them to go to the harbor, they packed up for the day and went home. You only missed them by a few minutes, major. They’ll be back at six tomorrow morning. Bob was always here first thing. Liked to go down to the docks and supervise the loading himself. That way, he could be sure no one palmed him off with yesterday’s catch.”

Fisher slumped into a chair and stared at a pile of unopened letters addressed to Mr. Bingham. “Do I have a secretary, by any chance?” he asked.

“Val. There’s nothing she doesn’t know about this place.”

Fisher managed a weak smile. “So where is she?”

“On maternity leave, and not expected back for some months. But I know she put an ad in the Grimsby Evening Telegraph for a temp,” he added as a man who looked like a heavyweight boxer stomped into the room.

“Which one of you’s in charge?” he demanded.

Perry pointed to the major.

“We need some help with the unloading, guv.”

“Unloading what?”

“’Undred and forty-eight crates of fish paste jars. Same time every Tuesday. If you haven’t got anyone to unload them, we’ll have to take them back to Doncaster, and that’ll cost you.”

“Perhaps you could give them a hand, Perry.”

“I’m management, major. The unions would down tools if I so much as looked at a crate.”

That was when Fisher realized that every one of them was singing from the same hymn sheet, and he wasn’t the choirmaster.

The major lasted for three days, during which time, not one pot of Bingham’s fish paste left the factory. On balance, he decided that doing battle with the Germans in North Africa was far easier than trying to work with a bunch of bolshie shop stewards on Humberside.

On Friday night, after the workers — all two hundred of them — had collected their wage packets and gone home, the curtain finally came down. The major checked out of the Humber Royal Hotel and took the last train back to London.

“Bingham’s shares have fallen another ten percent,” said Seb.

“What’s the spot price?” asked Bob.

Seb checked the ticker-tape machine in his office. “Seven shillings and sixpence. No, seven shillings and fourpence.”

“But they were a pound only a week ago.”